The Last Fight
by PaintingWords
Summary: Eragon and Saphira escape for a night before they are met by Murtagh and Thorn. How will their last fight end? Please review!


The Last Fight

Eragon had to get away from the Varden, if only for one night. He and Saphira took off in the late afternoon against both Nasuada and Arya's caution. Both rider and dragon were worried about what was to come. Each passing battle brought them closer and closer to the moment where they would have to face Galbatorix. It wasn't that they were afraid really, more like they wanted to escape their responsibilities for one night.

Saphira flew east, their backs to the setting sun. After a short flight, she landed a several miles from the Varden's camp. Eragon dismounted her and took off her saddle. They looked at each other, no words were needed. They both knew how much this time alone together meant for them. Setting up a crude camp, Eragon ate a meager meal of stale bread. A fire was made to keep the cool of the night at bay. Saphira snuggled against his side.

_I love you little one._

_ I love you too, Saphira._

Dragon and rider sat in silence as the sun sank below the horizon, enjoying each other's company. Few thoughts were exchanged. Eragon absentmindedly scratched Saphira's scales while she hummed a melancholy tune. Both were lost in their own thoughts of how much they would miss the other if something did happen to one of them.

A rhythmic beating split the silence of the moment. Saphira and Eragon were ready for battle within a second, daring their intruder to continue interrupting their moments together. They both knew that it had to be Murtagh and Thorn, considering the wing beat was quicker than an ancient dragon's.

Murtagh and Thorn landed a moment later several hundred yards from Saphira and Eragon. Murtagh leapt from Thorn's back with Zar'roc drawn. "What are you doing here?" challenged Eragon, furious at his friend-turned-enemy for interfering with his time with Saphira alone.

"I've come to take you back to Urû'baen" he replied in a dead voice.

"Never" was the answer, spat out by the speaker. And with that, Eragon lunged at Murtagh with Brisinger outstretched. The blue metal made contact with red before being twisted out and to the side for another attack. Again, the blade was blocked. The fight continued in the same manner, neither rider able to touch the other.

The two riders had not noticed their dragons had begun their own battle in the sky above them. Thorn had just released a stream of fire as Saphira rolled to the side. Tooth and claw met in the air as the dragons ripped at each other.

The riders below parried, lunged, and swung their way around the campfire. Flashbacks flooded Eragon's mind of how they had fought just like this before Murtagh became his sworn enemy, before Murtagh was his half-brother, before Murtagh became a rider, before Murtagh was abducted by the twins. Unconsciously, Eragon lightened his blows and moved a bit slower. Murtagh too seemed to remember fighting around the campfire while they crossed Alagaësia together, and softened his blows.

Like two mirror images they fought; neither one could touch, would touch, the other. Eragon blocked each of Murtagh's thrusts, just like Murtagh parried around Eragon's lunges. At times Eragon could have sworn he smelled meat cooking over the fire, just like before. Murtagh fought with life, now a blood-thirsty vengeance, but with wild energetic motions. It had been so long since he had felt so alive.

The dragons were a different story however. Saphira and Thorn were bleeding from several wounds inflicted by the other, but they both fought for their lives. Saphira was keen on destroying the pathetic-excuse-for-a-dragon-Thorn. Her claws were bloody and her throat was dry from the numerous streams of fire she had aimed at the red dragon.

Eragon felt a drop of dragon blood sear his skin, which awakened him to the reality at hand. Blows became more life-threatening, but Murtagh blocked everyone, familiar with his younger brother's style.

Murtagh and Eragon wore on, the younger fighting for real while the elder was stuck fighting in the past. Both brothers were haunted by the fact that they had once fought just like this on friendlier terms, and the realization that their comradeship had come to an end. The cruel reality was that they had both lost, lost each other. They were enemies now; no longer would they fight side by side, no longer would they have the other to rely on.

Saphira dealt Thorn a severe wound that caused him to plummet to the earth. He was able to slow his fall, but he could not stop before he crumpled on the ground. The blood from his various wounds flowed down his sides; the ground was soaked around him with his blood.

Murtagh sheathed Zar'roc and fled to Thorn to heal the wounds he had suffered. Eragon allowed him; he would have wanted Murtagh to do the same for him. He too began to heal Saphira. Murtagh and Thorn left shortly, knowing they were in no condition to fight their foes. Eragon continued to heal Saphira. The rest of their night was spent comforting each other before they drifted off to sleep together.

The next morning, Eragon saddled Saphira and they took off into the sky, westward towards the Varden. They flew for a while before spotting something that glinted in the sunlight. Looking down, they saw Thorn lying dead in the forest. Saphira landed so that she and Eragon could investigate. Next to Thorn, Eragon saw Murtagh clutching a piece of parchment with a cold, dead hand. Out of curiosity, and to see if any there was any information to be gained for the Varden's use, he took the scrap from Murtagh's hand, ignoring the stone cold feel of his half-brother's skin. Unrolling the scroll, he found a short note written in Murtagh's hand, addressed to him.

_I wanted our last fight to be just like they began, with us as equals around the campfire. With us as brothers._


End file.
